Reversion
by Photogirl1890
Summary: A coda to "Faces".


**Disclaimer: **Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary: **A coda to 1x14 "Faces".

**A/N: **For **Delwin**, who makes what I write better. Thank you, my friend.

Many thanks also to **MissyHissy3** who ran this through the 'Does this suck?' test.

* * *

><p><strong>Reversion<strong>

It's the bones morphing under the taut skin of her forehead – her smooth, _perfect_ forehead – that awakens her in the early hours. The sensation is like nothing she's ever experienced. She imagines this is how it might feel to have an army of Cardassian fire ants on the surface of her skull, burrowing tenaciously towards her brain.

Sleep hadn't come easily to B'Elanna in the first place. She'd seen midnight come and go as she spewed up the contents of her stomach (still just the one for now) into the toilet bowl. The Doctor, on granting her release from sickbay, has insisted that she eat: biosynthesis, as well as being an energy intensive process, requires a whole host of precursors to work with – simple molecules, vitamins, and minerals – that her newly reincorporated Klingon genes will, via a series of metabolic pathways, utilise to build the proteins, complex carbohydrates, and other compounds that will restore her body to its original, necessary self. With her appetite non-existent, she'd gulped down two litres of banana flavoured nutritional shake in lieu of a proper dinner.

Clearly that easy seeming option had been a poor choice.

The nausea that had lingered in the background ever since her fully Klingon counterpart had 'encouraged' her to eat that tunnel rat had been brought to the fore as the chalky liquid sat heavily, ominously, in her single, delicate stomach.

Kes had made an early morning house call. Bringing with her a hefty dose of antiemetic, the little Ocampan had shown no displeasure at the unsociability of the hour. But, B'Elanna had felt guilty nevertheless: the Doctor could have just sent the hypospray to her replicator. She was weak, but she wasn't completely helpless. She'd told Kes so once the drug had taken effect.

"I was already awake," Kes had assured her. "It's really no bother."

"Another late night study session?" B'Elanna had enquired.

The Ocampan's dedication to her medical training was well recognised by all on _Voyager_. She'd taken to her role as the Doctor's assistant with an enthusiasm second only to Neelix's passion for his own assorted responsibilities. But, at B'Elanna's comment, Kes's bright smile had departed. "What the Vidiians did to you – it brought back some painful memories of what they did to poor Neelix."

B'Elanna had almost forgotten about that: that she and Durst weren't the first of _Voyager_'s crew to fall victim to those vile aliens. Whether it was due to her fatigue or to the cocktail of chemicals flooding her system, clarity of thought was quite lacking right now.

Kes had offered to stay and keep her company, to listen if B'Elanna wanted to talk about her ordeal. But, as well as his prescription to eat, the Doctor had underlined the importance of sleep. Kes had left to let her rest. B'Elanna had crawled back into bed.

And then, when sleep had finally arrived, there'd been fevered, terrifying dreams. Of the Vidiian guards dragging her from the barracks for a 'shower and a hot meal', and, in this mental recreation, of no rescue. Just a vast laboratory – Organ Processing – and a Vidiian scientist wearing not Durst's but Tom Paris's maimed face. _And looking at her through Paris's piercing blue eyes._

As the guards had strapped B'Elanna to the operating table, there'd been one thought dominating her mind: that the fear – the overwhelming, paralysing fear – would soon be over.

At least the biological plate tectonics have pulled her out of that nightmare. And, with her stomach more settled, she tries to eat once more. An early, light breakfast of plain pancakes and herbal tea distracts a little from the pain and the itching. It puts some strength back into her legs and, as she observes in the bathroom mirror, a little colour into her cheeks.

Colour that fades fast as her eyes track higher up her reflection to see her forehead where her cranial ridges are developing, one micrometre at a time.

Asymmetrically.

Her stomach churns again.

"_It's still very early in your treatment,"_ the Doctor tells her, when she opens a visual comm channel to show him the state of her face. _"It's less than twenty four hours since I administered the first dose of genetic material. I'm almost certain that any phenotypical abnormalities will resolve themselves over the next few days."_

B'Elanna feels a spark of her notoriously short temper – a temper that's been tempered by her lack of Klingon DNA. "You're _almost_ certain?"

"_Try not to worry, Lieutenant. You saw how well I disguised Commander Chakotay as a Vidiian, so you know that my cosmetic surgery skills are second to none. Using the records I have on file for you as a template, I can easily operate to modify your facial structure so that you'll look exactly like your old self should the genetic treatment fall short. But let's wait and see what your body does of its own accord, shall we? And remember, no humanoid face is one hundred percent symmetrical. It's normal to have some bilateral variation. Did you know that in Betazoid culture—"_

She cuts the comm line, declaring not to look in the mirror again for the next few days, not to reach up and track the changes with her fingertips either. And it's not just the cranial ridges that are changing her appearance. Already her eyebrows have visibly thickened and, conversely, her hairline has begun to retreat upwards, fine hairs coming away as she scratches that part of her scalp.

Chakotay comms her before his shift begins. How's she doing? Does she need anything? It's Hogan's birthday today. Neelix has made a cake. Will she join them for lunch in the mess hall later?

That's a definite no. She won't subject herself to the inevitable stares and whispers of her crewmates. Chakotay can drop by later if he likes, but B'Elanna has resigned herself to at least three days of self-imposed seclusion. Three more days: that's how long the Doctor predicts her 'reversion' will take to completion. 'Reversion' – it sounds so … negative, like a 'deterioration' or 'decline', but it had been the Doctor's choice of word not her own – and it is scientifically accurate.

She fills time by reading. Marked for her attention when she logs on to the computer are engineering reports from the last few days, a proposition from Ensign Vorik to modify the antimatter injectors on the class-6 shuttles to increase fuel efficiency, and a couple of disciplinary reports regarding Dalby and Chell to which she's been copied in. When she'd been trying to hack the security console in the Vidiian lab, she hadn't had time to feel fearful. Keeping her mind challenged with practical, solvable problems is a great antidote to anxiety. She checks through Vorik's calculations and methodology, noting down some suggestions where she feels the young Vulcan could benefit from thinking outside the box. Then she sends a reply, authorising him to run some preliminary simulations on the holodeck.

When through with that she looks at something more entertaining. On a PADD by her bed sits a partly read novel. But, _Women Warriors in the Valley of Doom_ doesn't hold her interest for long. In fact, she struggles to see the appeal of the book altogether, failing to comprehend how's she's made it through forty-seven chapters of such repetitive, over-the-top nonsense. It's strange to recall that she was enjoying the book just a few days ago. Those memories are entirely hers, and yet … there's a disconnection there, a dissociation.

By the time Chakotay comes calling at her door she's glad to see him.

"Neelix was adamant that you had some birthday cake," Chakotay says, handing her a large covered plate, a look of amused apology on his features. "If I hadn't agreed to bring it to you, he'd have done so himself, and I didn't think you'd be in the mood for one of his pep talks."

"You thought right," B'Elanna responds, lifting off the cover, her nostrils greeted by a strong scent of … something that shouldn't belong to anything edible. The slice – chunk – of cake revealed has a thick layer of yellow frosting above a squidgy turquoise central band of sponge and a base of charred … oats? Puffed rice? It's difficult to tell.

"It actually tastes a lot better than it looks," Chakotay advises.

"How about better than it smells?"

Her friend shakes his head, but it's not to answer in the negative: he doesn't understand the question.

"You don't smell that … burnt wood smell?"

"No. It smells fairly neutral to me." He laughs and adds, "Thankfully. I'm not sure I could have stomached it otherwise."

"I guess my half-Klingon sense of smell must be returning."

Which is an interesting side note to the odd sensation she feels with every breath – that her body isn't receiving enough oxygen. That won't likely resolve until her third lung has grown back to its full size.

"Don't eat it if you think it'll make you sick again," Chakotay says. "Neelix doesn't have to know."

But the words of her late counterpart ring in her ears – _I'm sorry I can't replicate you a soufflé – _and she puts the cake aside for later. Perhaps she can drown it with sauce. Or wine? It would be best not to waste food.

She asks after Paris. Have Janeway and Tuvok finished debriefing him? Is he back on duty yet?

They have and he is.

Tuvok will need to speak to her too, B'Elanna knows. The brief … hazy … mission summary she'd given the Vulcan and the Captain while in sickbay – of everything that had happened to her back on the Vidiian planet – will not be sufficient for the fastidious security chief's investigations. B'Elanna doubts that either she, Paris, or Durst could have acted any differently to prevent their abductions – let alone the latter's murder. But, if anything can be learned from what went wrong during the mission, Tuvok will certainly root it out.

Thankfully, the Avery system is light years behind them now. Though _Voyager _still travels through Vidiian territory, the aliens do not pose any immediate threat. B'Elanna's appointment with Tuvok can wait a couple of days – on that both the Doctor and the Captain have agreed.

###

Paris calls the next morning – not in person (thank _Kahless_) but over the comm. How's she doing? Does she need anything? There's a pool tournament in Sandrine's later: red shirts versus gold. Harry says gold could use another player.

B'Elanna politely declines. She's not ungrateful for Paris's concern. In fact, throughout that whole sorry mess of an away mission, his behaviour had been nothing but admirable. They'd had a real, civilised conversation back in the barracks. Another in the tunnels. And, somehow, even though she'd told him things that she's never discussed with anyone before, she doesn't regret doing so.

Right now, however, she's curled up in bed, not fit to converse much with anyone. Every bone in her body aches like it's been injected with molten lead. Her heart hammers painfully against her sternum. And, despite resetting the ambient temperature to a toasty twenty five degrees, she can't stop shaking.

The symptoms remind her of the time she contracted the Ankaran flu back in grammar school. Instead of taking her to the Kessik IV settlement's small but well-equipped hospital for treatment, her mother had insisted that B'Elanna ride out the unpleasant-but-rarely-serious virus with only a few Klingon home remedies for (largely ineffectual) symptomatic relief.

"Human medicine will only make you weaker in the end," her mother had insisted. "You must build strength through discomfort. It is the Klingon way."

And maybe B'Elanna had come through the experience stronger. But she'd missed two weeks of class in the process, including the annual school science fair, which, for her, was the highlight of the academic year.

The Doctor sends Kes to run some basic tests. His conclusion – B'Elanna's heart is working fine. It's 'just' anxiety. The heaviness in her skeleton – 'psychosomatic'. And the feeling of cold – her hypothalamus is readjusting. Why doesn't she try a warm shower?

She's been allocated extra rations to replicate food and run hot water. When she eventually drags herself into the bathroom and stands under the shower it does help – with both the shivers and the all-over ache. For a while she feels revitalised. Enough to comm Carey. He's moved onto Alpha shift for the duration of her ... _recuperation_. B'Elanna wants to know how the refit of the fire suppression system in cargo bay two is coming along. She hadn't seen it mentioned in the reports she'd caught up on yesterday.

It should have been Carey on that away team: Paris, Durst, and Carey. But, Joe had got tied up overseeing repairs to the _Tereshkova_. He'd wanted to follow those through to the end and B'Elanna had agreed that that was for the best. While a magnesite survey wasn't high on her list of fun things to do, she hadn't been off _Voyager_ since taking part in the away mission to that irradiated Kazon ship two months prior. She'd been ready for a change of scene – even if that entailed working with Tom Paris. It wasn't as if they'd be alone together. And Pete Durst, considering he was Starfleet security, was surprisingly good company.

Until the Vidiians had showed up, the team's inspection of the magnesite formations couldn't have gone more smoothly. Paris had a lot of rock climbing experience. His knowledge of geomorphology had come in useful when deciding exactly which areas to prioritise for detailed tricorder scans. As a cadet at the Academy, Durst had taken some extra credits in geochemistry and sedimentology. He'd shared some interesting anecdotes about similar rock formations he'd studied back in the Alpha Quadrant on Ajilon Prime. With the addition of B'Elanna's engineering expertise, the three of them had functioned as an efficient working unit, getting the job done quickly but still having time for some banter along the way. Durst, when one had gotten to know him, had had a really droll sense of humour.

She hopes the poor bastard died painlessly.

As she dozes fitfully through that night – her dreams revisiting that disturbing vision of Paris's mangled face – she spends her waking moments wondering how her fully Klingon counterpart would have reacted had their situations been reversed. Would that other B'Elanna be cowering in her quarters like a frightened _tik'ath _cub? Surely she'd be working through any pain, through the visible changes, tackling the transformation with courage. _She_ wouldn't be too embarrassed to show her misshapen face to her crewmates. Would she?

Why couldn't some of that courage – that confidence – have been the first of her Klingon traits to re-emerge? And why _does_ she feel so crippled with anxiety without her Klingon DNA in any case? Tom Paris wasn't born part Klingon and he hadn't let fear get the better of him back in the barracks. He'd tried to help Durst. So, perhaps the terror she feels is nothing to do with being human – not specifically.

Perhaps it's that, as a pure-blooded human, she's simply her father's daughter.

###

Kes comes by at 0900 to administer the last dose of the Doctor's 'DNA reintegration formula'. The treatment is progressing well, the Ocampan says. Every tricorder reading she takes falls well within expected parameters.

Expected parameters? B'Elanna can't help but be a little sceptical. She is, essentially, a test subject. A guinea pig. The Doctor has never treated a condition like hers before. The description he'd given her of what the treatment would entail had all sounded very impressive: microhomology-mediated end joining, translesion synthesis, transcription activator-like effector nucleases… But, what if he's made a miscalculation? What if she ends up more Klingon than she was before?

As the day progresses, those fears subside: her anxiety in general dwindles. She's beginning to feel more like herself now. Her torso feels less empty. Her secondary stomach and third lung are steadily enlarging without, thankfully, any of the unpleasant sensations associated with the changes to her forehead.

When Chakotay drops by again for lunch, B'Elanna is actually famished. He's brought fresh salad from airponics which they supplement with replicated pasta and, on B'Elanna's plate, chicken. They exchange gossip about Jarvin's new girlfriend, both equally surprised that their vehemently Maquis comrade has taken up with a member of Starfleet – and a physicist, no less. It's a sharp contrast from the barely literate ex-Dabo girl he'd been involved with back in the DMZ. B'Elanna asks if Janeway is aware and, if so, if she's expressed any disapproval. She doesn't seem like the sort of captain who'd favour romantic entanglements among her crew. Chakotay shrugs. He's not heard Janeway express an opinion on the matter either way but expects she will at some point. In due course there are sure to be others who will form bonds beyond friendship.

Over dessert talk moves on to the duty roster: to who's working well with whom and who isn't. There's time to speculate about current events in the Alpha Quadrant: in the DMZ and on Bajor. If it wasn't for the fact that Chakotay's looking everywhere but directly at her face it would be just like hundreds of meals they've previously shared.

B'Elanna doesn't call him on it. But, after he's gone, she risks a peek in the mirror.

And wishes she hadn't.

Now, not only is her forehead asymmetrical, but the first ridges – just above her eyebrows – are much more prominent than they should be in relation to those above. As her heart begins to hammer once again and her stomachs – both of them now – start swirling, the marching of the fire ants becomes a stampede.

"_Unless you're prepared to come to sickbay where I can run a more thorough examination, it would be dangerous to give you anything more than a mild analgesic at the moment," _the Doctor declares. _"Your cell surface receptors are changing too rapidly and unpredictably. It would be extremely difficult to determine an appropriate dosage of anything stronger while your body is in this state of flux." _

B'Elanna opts to build strength through discomfort. Even if she were to bypass the corridors and turbolifts with a site-to-site transport, _Voyager_'s sickbay has to be the least confidential medical environment she's ever experienced. Even the tiny infirmary on the _Val Jean_ had had a privacy curtain…

Getting ahead on the form-filling for next week's scheduled maintenance kills a couple of afternoon hours. She gives _Women Warriors_ another glance too. And messages come through from Bendera and Ayala: both offering up the holodeck slots they have booked for later in the day should she wish to get some exercise. A game of hoverball or a few laps around the track could be therapeutic. Either might help work out some of the aggression that's building. Aggression fuelled by irritation: irritation and frustration that are superseding that recurrence of anxiety.

But, while the Doctor's earlier estimate of 'three more days' now looks to have been optimistic, she'll surely be back to normal within another twenty four hours – forty eight at the most. Her quarters are comfortable – luxurious compared to the standards she'd been used to in the Maquis. In fact, she's never had this much living space all to herself. Her bedroom at home on Kessik IV had been less than half this size. She can stick this confinement out for a little bit longer.

###

And, indeed, it's towards the end of the fourth full day of treatment – six days since escaping from the Vidiians – that the other pieces she's been missing from herself finally snap into place.

The ants have stopped stampeding. When she brushes her fingers across her brow, she feels in full the familiar, symmetrical contours bestowed by her mixed heritage. The reflection that stares back at her in the bathroom mirror is entirely her own: all the tiny details that her eyes can make out unaided are just as they had been before the disastrous mission. While her mind is clear and her heartbeat steady, the simmering undercurrent – the internal struggle between temperance and temper – that she's lived with all her years is back. With a vengeance.

But better the devil one knows…

She changes into uniform then heads to sickbay, where the Doctor provides assurances that all her vital signs are stable, that the configuration of her internal organs is as it should be, and that her hybrid genome is fully restored.

"I don't anticipate you'll experience any further problems, Lieutenant," the hologram says, gazing down upon her with a wide self-satisfied smile. "You're fit to return to duty."

Rising from the biobed, she thanks him and bolts for the door. The sooner she can put all this behind her – get back to her regular routine – the better. There's bound to be some unreported screw up in Engineering that requires her personal attention. Seven days is a long time in the life of a starship.

First, however, there's Starfleet protocol to be followed.

For what she hopes is the final time, she relives the events on the planet. Around the desk in the Captain's ready room, Janeway and Tuvok listen intently, compassionately, to the tale. There's that disconnection again: a dissociation from the memories that B'Elanna knows are her own, yet … that don't seem entirely real. At times it feels like she's recounting the information second-hand. Images from her nightmares are more vivid than the visual snapshots she retains of what actually occurred.

"There'll be a memorial service for Lieutenant Durst tomorrow," Janeway tells her, when the debriefing comes to a much welcome close. "1300. In the mess hall."

Not that they have a body to send back to the stars. Like they had with B'Elanna's counterpart.

"I'll be there, Captain," B'Elanna replies, inching ever closer to the edge of her seat.

Janeway doesn't fail to pick up on her impatience. "Well, I'm sure you're eager to get back to work. We're certainly all very glad to see you back on your feet."

As the Captain rises, Tuvok and B'Elanna follow suit. The Vulcan stays behind as B'Elanna acknowledges her dismissal and exits the ready room to the bridge.

In the time she's been in with the Captain, Alpha shift has given way to Beta. Paris, however, still stands beside the helm, chatting with Ensign Jenkins, the young woman who has taken over at his station.

His back is turned to the ready room door, negating the necessity for B'Elanna to extend any salutation. But, when she steps into the turbolift, he's there at her heels.

"Room for one more?"

B'Elanna turns. The smile with which Paris greets her is casual, but those blue eyes – _tired _blue eyes - linger on her forehead just a millisecond too long.

She unclenches her jaw, nods in return, calls for deck eleven as he asks for deck four and the lift doors confine them.

"It's been some week, huh?" Paris says softly.

The understatement of the year. "Yeah. Some week," B'Elanna echoes.

Though the time seems dilated, it's three seconds – maybe four – before the lift stops at the pilot's destination and the doors whoosh open. Before he steps across the threshold, he pauses for a moment. "It's good to see you up and about."

B'Elanna manages a small smile, and a vestige of that openness she – or that more human version of herself – had felt with him during their captivity on the planet causes her to admit, "It's good to be … _me_ again."

And it is.

As good as it's ever been.

She does, on some level, have a newfound appreciation for the ways in which her two 'halves' _do_ work together.

She may not be at peace with herself, but she is complete.


End file.
